It's Sex Week here on Planet Michelle!
My posts this week will be devoted to
one of my favorite subject, sex. (Love I know less about, but I'll throw in a nice love-post too, later in the week.)
To those of you thinking, "And this differs from her usual sex-steeped stuff how?", might I remind you to behave? Don't make me handcuff you. (Well …. wait a minute …. )
Today's trip to Sexyville is entitled, "It's Mambo Time."
I was talking to a friend recently, and she made a comment that she and her husband lately had been doing the “horizontal mambo” more often than usual.
Although I enjoy nothing more than friends and family regaling me with tales of their coital escapades (i.e., eeeewww), I must admit, I did find the phrase amusing. (I’m hoping, though, that no congratulations are in order, as I’m unclear on the etiquette involved.)
It got me to thinking, Does everyone have a name for sex? Do you?
I don’t, not really (unless “Woo Hoo!” counts). If I’m fortunate enough to (A) have found a suitable partner (intelligent, sexy, amusing, some soul-matey potential), and (B) be enjoying non-vertical activities with said-person, I’m too busy grinning like an idiot to be thinking of cutesy names for what we’re doing and the parts being employed to do it.
In couplehood, especially, it seems to be a thing to give dippy names to stuff - each other, each other’s body parts, the act itself. Never having shared my life with a “namer,” this is, um, virgin territory to me. I have a pronounced snark-reflex (it’s hell at weddings and funerals), so I know I’d snicker if ever Stevie Soulmate began calling me “puppy-toes” or “llama-legs” or what-have you.
I’ve never really called The Act anything out of the ordinary - usually, “Wanna have sex?” pretty much covers it. In the 70’s, “Doin’ It” was the phrase; I’m not sure what they called sex in the 80’s, as I was married by then, i.e., The Great Doin’ It Drought of ’84-’89. By the mid-90’s I was divorced, but then had a long, ill-fated relationship, i.e., The Great Doin’ It Drought of ’97-’01.
I always thought the British phrase shagging sounded like fun. Sure beats humping, shtuping, porking, friggin’ and boinkin’ all to hell. (Sounds like a law firm - “Shtuping Humping and Boinkin. How may I direct your call?”)
To me, the really, um, sticky-wicket, the big kahuna of let’s-do-it phrases is Making Love. It’s just so serious, so daunting, so romance-novel-y. To some women, being told, “I want to make love to you” can elicit anything from giggles to cringing. It’s kind of a big matzo-ball to throw out there if you don’t know what you’re doing. I will admit that it does depend on the man who’s saying it - it’s like being bald - some men can carry it off and some can’t. Better to leave the making-love stuff to men like Prince Charles, Daniel Craig and short, kinky, musical Prince.
Also, I have never put a name to anyone’s genitalia. Well, once. I was young and under the influence of a guy named Jack. Daniels. And we broke up a long time ago. (No, I don’t remember the name. Again, behave! Don’t make me turn this blog around.)
So, tribe, as long as we can keep this semi-classy, let me have it - call me Sen. Joe McCarthy, because I want you to name names!
Don’t be shy. Don’t be gross or disgusting, either, but lay it on me. Remember, the stupid-er, the funnier!
Come on, baby, let’s do it! I'll respect you in the morning, I promise.
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